Jora dropped to the snow, putting a hand on his little brother’s shoulder. Arkady shook it off, staring up with red, tear-filled eyes and a bloody mouth, looking like a savage animal. He didn’t say anything. His whole face was tight with anger. He got to his feet, a little unsteady.
—Arkady?
In reply his little brother just opened his mouth and cried out, making an animalistic sound. All Jora could see was a set of dirty teeth. Arkady turned around and ran away.
—Arkady; wait!
But Arkady didn’t wait—didn’t stop, didn’t want to hear his brother’s apology. He ran as fast as he could, his tongue searching for the newly made gap in his front teeth. Finding it, feeling the gum with the tip of his tongue, he hoped he’d never see his brother again.
14 FEBRUARY
Leo stared up at Apartment Block 18—a low-rise, squat slab of gray concrete. It was late afternoon, already dark. An entire working day had been lost to a task that was as unpleasant as it was unimportant. According to the militia incident report, a boy aged four years and ten months had been found dead on the railway lines. The boy had been playing on the tracks, three nights ago, and was caught by a passenger train, his body cut up by the wheels. The driver of the 21.00 to Khabarovsk had communicated at his first stop that he’d caught a glimpse of someone or something on the tracks shortly after leaving Yaroslavskiy Vokzal station. Whether that train had actually hit the boy wasn’t yet established. Maybe the driver didn’t want to admit to hitting the child. But there was no need to press the issue: it was a tragic accident with no question of blame. The matter should’ve already been closed.
Ordinarily there was no reason Leo Stepanovich Demidov—a member of the MGB, the State Security force—would have become involved in this kind of incident. What was there for him to do? The loss of a son was heartbreaking for the family and relatives. But, bluntly, it was meaningless at a national level. Careless children, unless they were careless with their tongues, were not State Security concerns. However, this particular situation had become unexpectedly complicated. The parents’ grief had taken a peculiar form. It seems they were unable to accept that their son (Leo checked the report, committing the name Arkady to memory) had been responsible for his own death. They’d been telling people that he’d been murdered. By whom—they had no idea. For what reason—they had no idea. How could such a thing even be possible—once again, they had no idea. Yet even without a logical, plausible argument they had an emotive power on their side. There was the very real possibility they were convincing other gullible people: neighbors, friends, and strangers, whoever might listen.
To aggravate the situation further, the boy’s father, Fyodor Andreev, was himself a low-ranking member of the MGB and one of Leo’s subordinates. Aside from the fact that he should know better, he was bringing the MGB into disrepute by using the weight of his authority to give credibility to this unfeasible assertion. He’d crossed a line. He’d let his feelings cloud his judgment. Had the circumstances not been mitigating, Leo’s task here might well have been this man’s arrest. The whole thing was a mess. And Leo had been forced to take temporary leave from a sensitive, genuine assignment in order to straighten the matter out.
Not looking forward to the confrontation with Fyodor, Leo took his time walking up the stairs, contemplating how he had ended up here—policing people’s reactions. He’d never intended to join the State Security Department; the career had grown out of his military service. During the Great Patriotic War he’d been recruited for a special forces unit, OMSBON—the Independent Motor-rifle Brigade for Special Tasks. The third and fourth battalions of this unit had been selected from the Central Institute of Physical Culture where he’d been a student. Handpicked for athleticism and physical prowess, they were taken to a training camp at Mytishchi, just north of Moscow, where they were taught close combat, weapons training, low-altitude parachuting, and the use of explosives. The camp belonged to the NKVD, as the secret police was known before State Security became the MGB. The battalions came under the direct authority of the NKVD, not the military, and the nature of their missions reflected this. Sent behind enemy lines, destroying infrastructure, collecting information, carrying out assassinations, they were clandestine raiders.
Leo had enjoyed the independence of his operations, although he was careful to keep that observation to himself. He liked the fact, or perhaps just the impression, that his fate had been in his hands. He’d flourished. As a result he’d been awarded the Order of Suvorov Second Class. His levelheadedness, military success, good looks, and above all his absolute and sincere belief in his country had resulted in him becoming a poster boy—quite literally—for the Soviet liberation of German occupied territory. He and a gaggle of soldiers from a patchwork of divisions were photographed surrounding the burning wreck of a German panzer, guns in the air, victory on their faces, dead soldiers at their feet. In the background smoke rose from smoldering villages. Destruction and death and triumphant smiles—Leo, with his good set of teeth and broad shoulders, was ushered to the front of the photograph. One week later the photograph had made the front page of Pravda and Leo was being congratulated by strangers, troops, civilians, people who wanted to shake his hand, embrace him, this symbol of victory.
After the war Leo had moved from OMSBON into the NKVD itself. That progression had seemed logical. He hadn’t asked any questions: it was a path laid down by his superiors and he’d walked it, head held high. His country could have asked anything of him and he would’ve readily agreed. He would’ve run Gulags in the arctic tundra of the Kolyma region had they asked him to. His only ambition was a general one: to serve his country, a country that had defeated fascism, a country that provided free education and health care, that trumpeted the rights of the workers around the world, that paid his father—a munitions worker on an assembly line—a salary comparable to that of a fully qualified doctor. Although his own employment in the State Security force was frequently unpleasant he understood its necessity, the necessity of guarding their revolution from enemies both foreign and domestic, from those who sought to undermine it and those determined to see it fail. To this end Leo would lay down his life. To this end he’d lay down the lives of others.
None of his heroism or military training had any relevance today. Here was no enemy. This was a colleague, a friend, a grief-stricken father. And yet, even so, this was an MGB protocol and this father-in-mourning was the subject. Leo needed to tread carefully. He couldn’t allow himself to be swayed by the same feelings that were blinding Fyodor. This hysteria was putting a good family in danger. If left unchecked, the groundless chatter about murder could grow like a weed, spreading through the community, unsettling people, making them question one of the fundamental pillars of their new society:
There is no crime.
Few people believed this absolutely. There were blemishes: this was a society still in transition, not yet perfect. As an MGB officer it was Leo’s duty to study the works of Lenin, in fact it was every citizen’s duty. He knew that social excesses—crime—would wither away as poverty and want disappeared. They hadn’t reached that plateau yet. Things were stolen, drunken disputes became violent: there were the urki—the criminal gangs. But people had to believe that they were moving toward a better state of existence. To call this murder was to take a giant step backward. Leo had been taught by his superior officer, his mentor, Major Janusz Kuzmin, about the trials of 1937 where the accused had been briefed by Stalin that they had:
Lost faith
Enemies of the Party were not merely saboteurs, spies, and wreckers of industry, but doubters of the Party line, doubters of the society which awaited them. Applying that rule, Fyodor, Leo’s friend and colleague, had indeed become an enemy.
Leo’s mission was to quash any unfounded speculation, to guide them back from the brink. Talk of murder had a natural drama which no doubt appealed to certain types of fanciful people. If it came to it he’d be harsh: the boy had made a mistake f
or which he’d paid with his life. No one else need suffer for his carelessness. Maybe that was too much. He needn’t go so far. This could be resolved tactfully. They were upset—that was all. Be patient with them. They weren’t thinking straight. Present the facts. He wasn’t here to threaten them, at least not immediately: he was here to help them. He was here to restore faith.
Leo knocked and Fyodor opened the door. Leo bowed his head:
—I’m very sorry for your loss.
Fyodor stepped back, allowing Leo into the room.
Every seat was taken. The room was crowded, as though a village meeting had been called. There were elderly people, children—it was obvious that the entire family had gathered. In this kind of atmosphere it was easy to imagine how feelings had been whipped up. No doubt they’d encouraged each other to think that there was some mysterious force to blame for their little boy’s death. Maybe that made their loss easier to come to terms with. Maybe they felt guilty for not teaching the boy to stay clear of the railway lines. Leo recognized some of the faces around him. They were Fyodor’s friends from work. And they were suddenly embarrassed at being caught here. They didn’t know what to do, avoiding eye contact, wanting to leave but unable to. Leo turned to Fyodor:
— It might be easier to talk if it was just the two of us?
—Please, this is my family: they want to hear what you have to say.
Leo glanced around—twenty or so sets of eyes were fixed on him. They already knew what he was going to say and they did not like him for it. They were angry that their boy had died and this was their way of expressing that hurt. Leo would simply have to accept that he was the focal point for their anger.
—I can think of nothing worse than the loss of a child. I was your colleague and friend when you and your wife celebrated the birth of your son. I remember congratulating you. And it is with terrible sadness that I find myself consoling you.
A little stiff perhaps, but Leo meant it sincerely. It was met with silence. Leo considered his next words carefully:
—I’ve never experienced the grief that follows the loss of a child. I don’t know how it would make me react. Perhaps I would feel the need to blame someone, someone who I could hate. But, with a clear head, I can assure you that the cause of Arkady’s death is not in dispute. I have brought with me the report, which I can leave with you if you wish. In addition to this I’ve been sent to answer any questions you might have.
—Arkady was murdered. We want your help in investigating. If not you personally, then we would like the MGB to place pressure on the procurator to open a criminal case.
Leo nodded, trying to maintain an air of reconciliation. It was the worst possible beginning to their discussion. The father was adamant: their position entrenched. He was demanding the formal opening of an ugolovnoye delo, a criminal case, without which the militia wouldn’t investigate. He was calling for the impossible. Leo stared at the men from work. They realized, whereas the others did not, that this word—murder—tarnished everyone in the room:
—Arkady was caught by a passing train. His death was an accident, a terrible accident.
—Then why was he naked? Why was his mouth stuffed with dirt?
Leo tried to fathom what had just been said. The boy was naked? That was the first he’d heard of it. He opened the report:
The boy was found clothed.
Now that he read the line again it struck him as an odd stipulation. But there it was: the boy was clothed. He continued to scan the document:
Having been dragged along the ground his mouth contained dirt.
He closed the report. The room was waiting.
—Your boy was found fully clothed. Yes, there was dirt in his mouth. But his body was dragged by the train; some dirt in his mouth is to be expected.
An elderly woman stood up. Although stooped by age, her eyes were sharp:
—That is not what we were told.
—It’s very unfortunate, but you’ve been misinformed.
The woman pressed ahead. Evidently she was a significant power behind this speculation:
—The man who found the body—Taras Kuprin—was scavenging. He lives two streets away. He told us Arkady was naked, you hear? Not wearing a single item of clothing. A collision with a train doesn’t undress a boy.
—This man, Kuprin, did indeed find the body. His statement is in this report. He claims the body was found on the tracks, fully clothed. He’s quite clear about that. His words are here in black and white.
—Why did he tell us differently?
—Maybe he was confused. I don’t know. But I have this man’s signature on his statement and his statement is in the report. I doubt he would say anything differently if I asked him now.
—Have you seen the boy’s body?
Her question took Leo by surprise.
—I’m not investigating this incident: that is not my job. But even if it were, there’s nothing to investigate. This is a terrible accident. I’m here to speak to you, to make things clear when they’ve been unnecessarily confused. I can read you the entire report aloud if you like.
The elderly woman spoke again:
—That report is a lie.
Everyone tensed. Leo remained silent, struggling to stay calm. They had to realize that there was no compromise. They had to concede, they had to accept that their little boy died an unfortunate death. Leo was here for their benefit. He turned to Fyodor, waiting for him to correct this woman.
Fyodor stepped forward:
—Leo, we have new evidence, evidence which has come to light today. A woman who lives in an apartment looking out over the tracks saw Arkady with a man. We don’t know any more than that. This woman is not a friend of ours. We’ve never met her before. She heard about the murder—
—Fyodor . . .
—She heard about my son’s death. And if what we’ve been told is true, she can describe this man. She’d be able to recognize him.
—Where is this woman?
—We’re waiting for her now.
—She’s coming here? I’d be interested in hearing what she has to say.
Leo was offered a chair. He waved it away. He’d stand.
No one spoke, everyone waiting for the knock on the door. Leo regretted not taking that chair. Almost an hour had passed, in silence, before a faint knock was heard. Fyodor opened the door, introducing himself and showing the woman in. She was perhaps thirty years old: a kind face, large, nervous eyes. Startled at all the people, Fyodor tried to comfort her:
—These are my friends and family. There’s no need to be alarmed.
But she wasn’t listening. She was staring at Leo.
—My name is Leo Stepanovich. I’m an MGB officer. I’m in charge. What is your name?
Leo took out his pad, finding a fresh page. The woman didn’t reply. He glanced up. She still hadn’t said anything. Leo was about to repeat the question when she finally spoke:
—Galina Shaporina.
Her voice was a whisper.
—And what did you see?
—I saw . . .
She looked about the room, then at the floor, then back at Leo, relapsing into silence. Fyodor prompted her, tension evident in his voice:
—You saw a man?
—Yes, a man.
Fyodor, standing right beside her, his eyes drilling into her, sighed with relief. She continued:
—A man, a worker perhaps, on the railway—I saw him through my window. It was very dark.
Leo tapped his pad with his pencil:
—You saw him with a young boy?
—No, there was no boy.
Fyodor’s mouth dropped, his words rushed out:
—But we were told you saw a man holding my little boy’s hand.
—No, no, no—there was no boy. He was holding a bag, I think—a bag full of tools. Yes, that was it. He was working on the tracks, repairing them perhaps. I didn’t see very much, a glimpse, that’s all. I shouldn’t really be here. I’m very sorry
your son died.
Leo shut his pad.
—Thank you.
—Will there be any further questions?
Before Leo could answer, Fyodor took the woman by the arm:
—You saw a man.
The woman pulled her arm free. She looked about the room, at all the eyes on her. She turned to Leo:
—Will you need to visit me at a later date?
—No. You may go.
Avoiding eye contact with those around her, Galina hurried to the front door. But before she reached it the elderly woman called out:
—You lose your nerve so easily?
Fyodor approached the elderly woman.
—Please, sit down.
She replied, neither disgusted nor approving:
—Arkady was your son.
—Yes.
Leo couldn’t see Fyodor’s eyes. He wondered what silent communication was passing between these two people. Whatever it was, she took her seat. During all of this Galina had slipped away.
Leo was pleased Fyodor had intervened. He hoped that meant they’d reached a turning point. Scratching together gossip and rumor served no one. Fyodor returned to Leo’s side:
—Forgive my mother, she’s very upset.
—This is why I’m here. So we can talk this through within the confines of this room. What cannot happen is that once I leave this room, the conversation continues. If anyone asks you about your son you cannot say he was murdered. Not because I order you to but because it is not true.
— We understand.
—Fyodor, I want you to take tomorrow off. This has been authorized. If there’s anything more I can do for you . . .
—No, there’s nothing more.